Tales from the Great Hiatus
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: These are the stories of Inspector Lestrade, Dr. Watson, and the Messrs Holmes in the years 1891-1894. UPDATE: "'A policeman's lot is not a happy one,'" sang Ellie Bradstreet. "Nor is the lot of a policeman's wife!"
1. Of Sick Inspectors

**Author's Note:**

With all these Hiatus tales my brain keeps spawning, I figured I'd better just make it a collection. "Unraveling the Truth" and "Those Dark Hours" will not be moved to this little series, but they must be understood to be in the same universe. You may, if you've read my blog, have guessed by now that whatever ends up in this set may well fit into the planned _Deliver Us from Evil_ series. I should also warn you that this will be completely non-linear—i.e. I'll probably be jumping around in time.

Anyway, I found this little piece this morning—I'd begun it a month ago and completely forgotten it! Unfortunately, that means that it's only about a quarter of its original length—there was a long conversation that entailed Lestrade telling Watson a tale of a young Sherlock Holmes coming down with fever and Lestrade helping him. And in returning to this story today, I just can't recover that conversation, nor can I currently attempt to rewrite it. *sad sigh* Oh, well, I'm sure y'all will still enjoy. =)

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==Tales from the Great Hiatus==<strong>

**==1. Of Sick Inspectors==**

"Doctor, I really don't need you fussing over m—"

"Lie back down, Lestrade, before I tie you down!"

Lestrade snorted. "_Devil_ of a bedside manner, there, Doctor."

"A decade with the world's worst patient corrupted it," Watson said dryly. "Now lie down!"

"All right, all right!" Lestrade sank back into the bed and slid under the covers. "Better?"

"Much." Watson handed him a suspicious-smelling teacup. "Now drink that."

Lestrade peered cautiously at it. "What's in it?"

"Lemon and honey."

Lestrade blinked and scrunched up his face. "No, thank you—I think I'd prefer to be sick."

Watson wore a "heaven help me" look. "I think that the rest of us at the Yard prefer you not to be."

Lestrade grinned internally to hear John Watson identify himself with Scotland Yard. "Except Gregson, maybe?"

"Maybe. Now quit stalling—_drink_."

"All right, all right!" Lestrade took a sip and nearly spewed his drink back out. "Doctor!"

"That is what everyone says when I give them this," Watson mused. "I cannot imagine why…"

Lestrade scowled at the "pawky humor," as Mr. Holmes used to say. "Have you ever tried it?"

Watson met the scowl with a perfectly unruffled countenance. "Yes."

Lestrade resisted the urge to sigh—it could be just as hard to get anything out of Dr. Watson as it had been with Mr. Holmes. "_And?_"

"Rather vile, certainly, but effective." Lestrade groaned, then coughed. Watson lifted an eyebrow—oh, no, the man had spent _far_ too much time around the late Sherlock Holmes. "There you are. Now, really, Lestrade, I can't imagine you'd want to be out of commission when our _dear_ Colonel finally makes his attack on the Yard. Or me," he added as an afterthought.

Lestrade's face darkened. "Ohhh, that's _blackmail_, Watson."

"Take it how you will, just so long as you take that drink."

Lestrade gave him one last glare before raising the cup to his lips and taking long draughts to get it done with quickly. He set the cup down and folded his arms over the bedclothes. "Happy?"

"Quite."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I have to say, I loved finishing this! I just… started typing, and Lestrade and Watson took over with their little battle of wits! I was just along for the ride. It was terrific!

The more I write Lestrade, the more I love him. He's just adorable—stubborn, a tad feisty, good-natured, humble, and intelligent in his own way. No wonder Holmes calls him "the best of professionals." And writing him and Watson together is just fantastic—it's not best friends, but it's certainly comrades-in-arms.

Cookies, btw, to anybody who figures out what the title is inspired by. Next time I write (no guarantees when), I'll probably go _post_-Hiatus to when Lestrade learns of Holmes's survival. ;D

_**Please review!**_


	2. Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

Well, here's the Lestrade-learning-about-Holmes's-survival story, as promised. I'd originally wanted to make it a bit comical—and perhaps it still is, if ever so slightly. But it really ended up being serious, largely due to the fact that—in my personal canon—there's a war going on in London while Holmes is dodging Moran across Europe and Asia. Holmes's "death" was very keenly felt.

Now, about the origin of the title. "Tales from/of _word/phrase-of-your-choice_" comes from Star Wars books, specifically several story anthologies filled with short stories from different authors. _Tales from the Empire_, _Tales of the New Republic_, _Tales of the Bounty Hunters_, etc.

As a note to my _At the Mercy of the Mind_ readers, I'm bumping AMM back from Tuesday to Wednesday—Tuesday doesn't seem to be a very good day traffic-wise to upload installments. (I'd noticed that before and forgotten it.) Sorry about that!

**To my reviewers:**

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you—hope this doesn't disappoint!

nomdeplume30: They are, indeed! We probably have Granada to thank for getting the whole thing started in fans' minds, if I'm not mistaken. =) Thank you!

SabrinaPhynn: Thank you, thank you! Tee-hee, I know _that_ line… (have used it myself when telling friends online that I have to go).

Moonspun Dragon: Aw, you should've said—you probably would have gotten a cookie! Ha-ha, it is great when you see Holmes and Watson rubbing off on each other. Thank you!

MadameGiry25: Thank you very much!

Spockologist: Thank you, darlin'! The banter was awesome—all credit goes to them. ;D

wlk68: Thank you—will do!

fayfayzee: *grins* Thank you! And… your wish is my command!

insideouttuoedisni: Thank you! I really do love doing Lestrade-Watson interaction.

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==2. Resurrection==<strong>

Lestrade heard the pounding of feet down the hallway and the shouts that accompany a run through a building's thoroughfare. His door banged open to reveal Davy Wiggins, looking like he'd just run all the way from Baker Street. Lestrade shot to his feet.

"Inspector!"

"Wiggins! What the devil—"

"Yew won't believe it, sir; yew won't!"

Lestrade would have gone with his first instinct and demanded what had happened to Watson—initially, he could think of no other reason for Wiggin's state—when he took in the young man's shining blue eyes. The lad was panting too hard to smile, but Lestrade had the feeling that if Wiggins could have smiled, it would have lit up the room. "Won't believe _what_, lad?" he asked warily.

Wiggins gulped in air and managed a slight grin. "Yew'd better sit down, sir."

Lestrade lowered himself back to his chair. "All right, I'm sitting. Now…"

"Mr. Holmes is alive, sir, an' he's back in London."

Lestrade was barely aware of the fact that one moment, he was sitting, and the next moment, he was on his feet and the chair was clattering sideways to the floor. "Wig, that's not funny!"

"Oi couldn't be more serious, guv—'deed, Oi couldn't!" Wiggins insisted, his tenuous grasp on more proper English slipping away in his excitement. "Oi've seen 'im for m'self! Spoken with him! An' he's on a case, what's more, an' yew'll never guess who 'tis 'e's after!"

Lestrade watched him with wide eyes, wondering whether _he_ was dreaming or _Wiggins_ had gone mad. "_Who_, might I ask?"

"Colonel Moran!"

"He's looking to net Moran?" Lestrade said in spite of himself. "For the Ronald Adair murder?"

Wiggins nodded sharply. "'E's got these instructions for oo'ever Oi could foind as knows 'im, so Oi'm roight glad yew're back 'ere, sir. Oi di'in't want to get Inspector Gregson, sir."

Lestrade barked a short laugh—though he'd taken years in getting used to the Baker Street Irregulars, he'd eventually warmed up to them. Several of the original lads were even constables on the force now. But Wiggins and Gregson had never truly gotten along in all the years they'd been acquainted in passing. "Let me see that note then, lad."

Wiggins handed over an envelope, and Lestade quickly pulled out the sheet of paper.

And promptly slumped against his desk.

The handwriting was certainly Sherlock Holmes's. No mistaking it. A forger, perhaps, but one just _couldn't_ mimic that brilliant, arrogant, slightly condescending tone of voice. Well, perhaps Watson—and probably Mr. Mycroft Holmes—but neither man would ever do something like this.

_Eliminate the impossible_…

"Good God," he breathed, groping for his chair with one hand while holding himself up with the other. "Wiggins, you'd swear to this in court?"

The young man drew himself up and made a conscious effort to smooth his speech. "I'd wager m'life on it, sir. It's him, an' no mistake."

Lestrade eyed Wiggins for a long moment. "All right. All right, I'll do as the note says. But, Wiggins, you'd _better_ be right about this."

As Wiggins left, Lestrade leaned back in his chair and held that position for several minutes. Sherlock Holmes, alive and back in London. He wasn't sure whether to laugh hysterically or shout in anger.

_Where was Holmes when __we needed him most?_

Where had Holmes been when _Watson_ had needed him most? It had been nearly seven months since Mary and Arthur Watson's murders, and the memory still hung in many Yarders' minds like a shroud.

_You could have stopped that._

That was unfair—he didn't know that. But…

Then a truly terrible thought entered his head, taking his breath away. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Time was when one didn't hear one name without the other. They were as close as two men not related by blood _could_ be. Their protection of each other was legendary.

_How could you deceive Watson like this?_

He snatched up the envelope and ripped it. And ripped it again. Three times. Four. He kept ripping it 'til there was naught left but small scraps. Then he slumped back in his seat again and bowed his head.

He wanted to believe. He wanted to be excited. He _would_ go tonight to Baker Street, certainly. He'd see for himself if Sherlock Holmes was truly alive, and if he could finally catch Moriarty's right-hand man.

Lord willing, he'd also have the chance to ask Holmes why he'd abandoned them all.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

For my love for David Burke as Watson, "Davy" Wiggins is a tribute. ;D And it's just a guess that there might be some enmity between Wiggins and Gregson—but, hey, you gotta admit it's original. ^_^

And, yes, Lestrade (and Watson) know about Moran, taking VALL as retroactive continuity to FINA and EMPT.

Next up... I have no idea. You're welcome to give me ideas, though. =) Seriously, tell me what you'd like to see, and you might be seeing it here!

_**Please review!**_


	3. Those Questions Which Lie between Us

**Author's Note:**

Well, here it is! What two of you asked for and probably all of you were wanting—a sequel to the last story/Lestrade's first real discussion with Holmes's since his return. Nice and longish. =)

The next two installments won't be so long, but I think you'll really like them, too. ;D

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: *grins* Very well, then, and thank you for the nudge in the right direction. Thank you!

SabrinaPhynn: Thank you! (Likewise about Edward Hardwicke.)

fayfayzee: Thank you! Here you are!

ElizabethAnneSoph: …Heh, either I mis-communicated or you misread—or maybe a bit of both. Mary _is_ dead now, of course, but Watson is still alive. =) Thank you!

Moonspun Dragon: Aw, phooey. =D Ha-ha, yeah, it's just the artist in his soul. Thank you!

wlk68: Here you go, then! Enjoy!

Mam'zelleCombeferre: Thank you very much! Happy to deliver!

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==3. Those Questions Which Lie between Us==<strong>

221B looked quiet from where Lestrade stood across the way. He chewed thoughtfully on his cigarette for a moment, cast it aside, and crossed the street. Half a minute later, Mrs. Hudson informed him that the Doctor had returned to his surgery, and that Mr. Holmes was still in. Lestrade hesitated a moment on the steps—seventeen, he knew, thanks to "A Scandal in Bohemia"—then ascended them.

He had not done so in three and a half years.

He rapped on the sitting room door, remembering when he'd thought that he would never do so again. A languid "Come in" was his reply, and he pushed open the door. There was Sherlock Holmes, sprawled out on his old armchair, clad in that worn old dressing gown, and puffing on his pipe. "Ah, Lestrade!" he smiled, and the smile looked genuine. "Do come in!"

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade nodded, entering the room and closing the door behind him.

"What brings you here at this early hour? Surely you don't need Moran's airgun before I'd planned to return it?"

Lestrade removed his bowler hat and took a seat on the settee. "No, no, not at all."

He felt the familiar sensation of that keen grey gaze sweeping appraisingly over him. "You are here for information," the amateur decided. "Pray, state your business."

Lestrade drew in a deep breath to steel himself, and spoke. "Very well, Mr. Holmes, I'll be blunt. I want to know _why_."

The all-too-familiar mask slid over Holmes's features as Lestrade had seen it do for the past seventeen years. Good heavens, had it really been that long since he'd first met the struggling young amateur? "I am afraid you shall have to be more specific, Lestrade."

Lestrade met that penetrating gaze squarely with the stare he'd been told could put the fear of God into criminals and younger Yarders alike. "Don't be daft, man. Why did you aban—why did you leave us?"

The grey eyes narrowed at the all-too-obvious change of words. "It was the only way out that I could see."

"The only way," Lestrade echoed derisively.

"What would you have had me do?" the younger man demanded sharply. "I had gone to the Continent with the belief that I would not return alive, and I had thought that the Watsons would at last be free of their dangerous association with me. My survival was unexpected! Despite the Professor's death, I was still in danger, and, by extension, so was Watson! I could not countenance his life being at risk anymore, not with a wife and now a child on the way!"

"You thought you could protect him by letting him believe you dead?"

"Yes! With him in the dark, there was no way he could be connected to me any longer."

"Unless Moran decided to do so. He was there at the Falls?"

"Yes." Holmes sighed. "I was not even aware of his presence 'til Watson had left, but I might have known it. At any rate, he would not have used Watson against me even had he been here in England for the past three years. Sebastian Moran is a cruel man, but he respects the nobler of his fellow soldiers. Note that he deigned not to try anything against Watson when Watson was at the Falls."

_Even had he been here in England_… "Are you saying Moran was… _chasing_ you?"

Holmes cocked a sardonic eyebrow. "Quite so, and what a chase it was. Across Europe, through Asia, and back across Europe. I was not safe until I reached Montpellier in January."

A memory clicked into place in Lestrade's mind. "When Moran returned to London."

Holmes nodded. "He had lost my scent at last, and, from there, it was a waiting game to see who would move first. In his association with the Honorable Ronald Adair, he tipped his hand—rather a foolhardy thing to do."

"I thought he was supposed to be clever," Lestrade muttered, and Holmes heard him.

"He is. But even his master made a misstep—that was the only reason I could cast my net for him at last—and Moran was certainly not as brilliant as the Professor, or even his brother."

"I can attest to that," Lestrade said darkly, recalling two and half long years of pitched battle against Colonel Jeremiah Moriarty.

To Holmes's credit, something akin to misery flashed briefly across his thin, pale features. _He doesn't look healthy at all,_ Lestrade realized. "Indeed, and, for that, I must apologize. I had not thought to leave you to the Colonel's tender mercies, Lestrade, and I longed to come home and aid you when Mycroft sent his reports."

"You couldn't have risked it?" Lestrade said quietly.

"No," Holmes returned in the same tone. "Your war nearly tore London apart as it was—imagine the devastation that would have ensued had I returned and Moran followed me. He would have fought Moriarty for control of the organization, and God have mercy on any bystanders." His voice remained cool, but his eyes took on that haunted look Lestrade remembered from the late '70s, following his parents' deaths. "Tell me, Lestrade, what would _you_ have done?"

Lestrade felt in need of brandy or a cigarette. He chose the latter and lit it. "I am not sure," he murmured.

"Scylla vs. Charybdis, Lestrade, Scylla vs. Charybdis. Whatever way I could take presented risk and evil. I chose what I believed to be the lesser."

Lestrade inhaled deeply and let a long, slow stream of smoke out from his lips. "I see." The amazing thing was, he did, if only partially. To have the fate of quite possibly thousands on one's hands… that was a kind of responsibility that few men desired. For a lone wolf like Sherlock Holmes, he could only imagine that such a burden would be downright terrifying.

"Am I absolved?"

Lestrade looked sharply at the younger man, who, despite his casual posture and demeanor, appeared slightly apprehensive. _It matters,_ he realized with a start. _It _matters_ to him what I think_. He wasn't sure _how_ he felt about that. "I didn't come here to condemn you, Mr. Holmes."

The other's lips twitched. "You certainly fooled me, then."

"At long last."

Holmes barked a nervous laugh. "Indeed."

Lestrade rose, and Holmes shot to his feet. "You wouldn't care for tea or coffee before you go?" he said hastily.

"No, thank you—I must be getting back now." Lestrade tipped his hat. "I shall see you this afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Good morning."

"Good morning."

The Yarder moved toward the door, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "One more thing? Do you know where Colonel Moriarty is now?"

Holmes's expression was grave. "No. I do not. Even Mycroft has lost track of him, as doubtless you already know."

Lestrade nodded slowly. "Do you think he shall return?"

"With Moran safely out of the way?" Holmes smiled bitterly. "He would be a fool _not_ to return."

Lestrade felt a chill slither down his spine. "Then this war isn't over."

Holmes was silent for several seconds, something dark settling over his aquiline features. "No," he said, _sotto voce_. "No, it is not."

"God help us all," Lestrade murmured.

Holmes was silent for so long that Lestrade thought he was dismissed. But as he turned once more to go, he heard the younger man's voice behind him, just above a whisper. "Indeed."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I'm sure y'all can guess where the chapter title comes from. ;D

Yes, there is a huuuge back-story to this scene in regards to Colonel Moriarty, but it is veeery vague and sketchy. I have a lot of plotting-out to do, and you'll get no major spoilers from me! The bulk of what Lestrade and Holmes were discussing will comprise the majority of my future series, _Deliver Us From Evil_.

Meantime, the next two stories on the roster are Lestrade-less, which isn't that bad—we need variety. ;D Next up is a special letter from Mycroft to Sherlock, to uploaded… probably Friday.

_**Please review!**_


	4. Dear Brother

**Author's Note:**

Ugh, nothing like getting up at the crack of dawn and updating _four_ fics and uploading a _new_ one. I'm getting tired just _thinking_ about it… I might have my coffee early. So what are these other fics I speak of, you ask? Well, one is my ever-expanding _Sherlock_ epic (the doggone thing just keeps _growing_!). Then, of course, AMM. Another is—you won't believe this—_A Study in Stardom_. *cue gaping from the audience* Yes, I know—it's been forever! But I am back with a vengeance (actually, Jeremy _is_, lol!)

Last but not least, the brand-new fic is another Granada crossover, _Becoming the Great Detective_. Suspense, angst, h/c, action, and Jeremy-centralism. ^_^ Please check it out!

Btw, concerning Holmes and Lestrade's discussion of Colonel Moriarty in the last chapter… don't forget, it's mentioned _twice_ in the Canon that the Professor has a brother (and once, is given the same Christian name as the Professor: James!): FINA and VALL. According to Watson's introduction to "The Final Problem," the only reason he even published the story was to combat the letter(s?) Colonel Moriarty was publishing, defaming Holmes's good name! Aragonite remains the only author I've seen to use the Colonel, as an antagonist and just as a character, period! (Her _A Sword for Defense_ series should seriously be required reading for all pursuers of Sherlockian fanfic. Seriously. You do not know "epic" until you've read the four novel-sized stories in that series—the level of depth and complexity and sheer number of canonical characters involved is astonishing.)

**To my reviewers:**

SabrinaPhynn: Yeah, just when everybody thought things were winding down… Awww, my blushes, Jenn! *goes and does just that* I manage it with an incredibly overactive imagination and a lot of inspiration from Granada and from a couple of very talented fan-writers!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you very much!

Moonspun Dragon: Oh, yeah, they can be. Trust me. All you need to do is switch Holmes's moral alignment to "evil," and you can really tell the differences between him and the Professor. Actually, I think that Holmes being an artist accounts for a lot of quirks in his personality! Thank you!

MadameGiry25: Possibly more—I'm not sure. I'm saving the more epic stuff for my future ebook series—can't give the game away, you know! =) Thank you, and thank you for _giving_ suggestions!

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==4. Dear Brother==<strong>

Dear Brother,

This letter shall reach you weeks too late, but, as I write this, it is your thirty-fourth birthday. I continue to marvel at the fact that you have managed to survive this long, especially concerning this business with Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran. God grant that you may survive much longer.

Permit a man a moment of sentimentality regarding his younger brother-in-hiding, won't you? I do miss you, my boy. This day only serves to underscore that fact. I can recall countless incidents in our youth in which I never should have thought this would ever be the case. But I do miss you, terribly. Right now, I should even welcome that arrogant grin of yours, if only to be able to throw my left hook into it. Yes, brother mine, I can still throw a punch if the situation demands it.

Do you know, I still remember the day you were born with perfect clarity? I even recall regarding your birth as an investigation on my part, to determine from where, exactly, infants come. I managed to evade Nanny and to listen in on the birthing process from the other room. Needless to say, it was quite disturbing for a seven-year-old, the difficulties of your birth aside. I was also quite baffled as to why it should be a bad thing if a child's feet came out first. Leave it to you, O Misnamed Brother, to take the difficult path in childbirth.

I remember how incredibly small and fragile you appeared, as if one touch could crush you beyond repair. Little did any of us know then how very tall and strong you would turn out, in stature and in spirit. Nanny would have called you "larger-than-life," and she would have been correct. You are that, Sherlock Edward Holmes. Remember that when "the black reaction takes you."

I have yet to see an infant more beautiful than you were. You possessed an ethereal quality to your tiny features, and you never fully outgrew it. And you had such large dark eyes and so very fine dark hair. Do you remember when it was still dark brown? Mother would laugh disparagingly at herself and sigh that she had done you a disservice by calling you "fair-haired." But you never minded the misnomer. Certainly, it has rendered made your name memorable. I wonder what the world would think if they learned of your equally Anglo-Saxon middle name. Does Dr. Watson even know it?

I am sure you cannot recall the time that you first made me laugh, for you were but a few months old. Mother was on the settee, sitting you in her lap, and I was showing you my little hunter's watch. I swung it back and forth, and you laughed. I laughed in wonderment that you could find such a trivial thing so amusing, and my reaction startled both myself and Mother. Remember, I had never before laughed in my life. Even as an infant, I had apparently regarded existence as a serious proposition, and treated it accordingly. But then you came along, with all your exuberance and love for life.

Your joy corrupted me, Sherlock. I have never thanked you adequately for it. Never lose that joy, Sherlock, no matter what trials you face. To do so would be to lose an inestimably large part of your soul.

Forgive me if I have made you ache for home again, dear brother. If I did so, it was unintentional. I hope that you can draw joy and comfort from these disjointed memories, rather than heartache and homesickness. I shall close in a minute.

The Watsons continue to do well. Dr. Watson keeps very busy with the Yard, but it is satiating his thirst for adventure. The man is as bad as you in that respect—no wonder you two were so drawn to each other! Mrs. Watson is quite well, very happy and very well-suited to her role as mother. Arthur Sherlock himself is, at three months of age, quite an observant and expressive child—if I may, an interesting mix of his parents and _you_. I see in his large, luminous eyes an echo of the intensity of the gaze of my infant brother, long ago. You would quite approve of the way he observes his surroundings, dockets the information, and acts upon it. I have been to see the Watsons only thrice since their happy event, but each visit is quite intriguing and quite worth the bother of change in my routine.

As to the other matters for which you need information, I shall write back quite soon; by the end of the week, if I can manage it. For now, Sherlock—may God bless you in this, your thirty-fourth year upon this earth. May He hasten your return home, and, even if He does not, may His protection be always upon you.

With much love,

Your brother

Mycroft

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Should I have put in a warning for uber-fluff? ^_^ Ah, well. First birthday Sherlock's had since Reichenbach—Mycroft is entitled to be sentimental. Also, I know that Baring-Gould holds Sherlock's birthday to be the Twelfth Night (January 6th), but I'm holding otherwise, just on the grounds of being different. If you have reeeally good memory and you've read AMM all the way through, you might be able to work it out on your own, using Arthur Watson's birthday as a base. I'll give you a minute to do so.

Okay, minute's up! Do you know? March. How could you arrive at that conclusion? Elementary! In AMM "37. Cemetery," Mary and Arthur's shared tombstone gives his birthday: December 3rd. If baby Arthur is three months old as Mycroft writes this letter on Sherlock's birthday, that places said birthday in March! =)

Everything else aside, writing this letter was very special. It was an outpouring of love and memory, as if I really _was_ Mycroft Holmes as I wrote it to my poor younger brother in exile. And describing an infant Sherlock… that was absolutely the best part.

Next Friday… following the publication of "The Final Problem," Doyle is being bothered by indignant letters, and a freshly-widowed Watson has it even worse.

_**Please review!**_


	5. Too Late

**Author's Note:**

Something I forgot to do last time was draw your attention to Sherlock's middle name. Did you notice it? Sherlock _Edward_ Holmes. ^_^ Let me tell you, it was _not_ easy coming up with a middle name that fit in there. _Edward_ is indeed as Anglo-Saxon as _Sherlock_, and Wikipedia lists its meanings as "_Rich_/_blessed_ _guard_, _happy_ or _prosperous_." Despite his French roots, Holmes's name is quintessentially English. =) (Although, come to find out, the name _Holmes_ is rooted in Scandinavian! _Holm_ = _small island_.)

Btw, the next installment will be my last 'til I can think of something else. If you guys have any ideas, now's the time to share!

Warning: angst ahead. *sniffs*

**To my reviewers:**

SabrinaPhynn: *blushes* Thank you! Nooo, what I did was A/Ns and review replies for 2 or 3 out of the 5 stories I posted up that morning—which was still not fun. A cape would not be amiss. ^_^

Moonspun Dragon: I can believe it (about dark!Holmes). Have you ever read _Dear Crime_, _Apply Them_, or _Adventure in Cold Blood_? All three features dark!Holmes in varying degrees, and all three are excellent. Thank you! *hugs* (Btw, lady, you still have to finish "Vibrations"—I wanna know how that story finishes!)

MadameGiry25: Thank you! Um, heh, no, there's never a mention of a tombstone for Mary in the Canon. I was referring to a story of mine: _At the Mercy of the Mind_, "37: Cemetery." Sorry about the confusion!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you! As to your question… well, canonically, Mary is almost certainly dead by the time Holmes returns to London, and nowhere in the Canon does it actually mention any children of Watson's. On the other hand, Watson is alive and well. These stories are meant to be canon-compatible, while also enhancing it. If you can stand a little bit of trauma and child!death, you might want to check out my story "Those Dark Hours" to see how Mary and the baby die in my personal canon.

fayfayzee: *grins* Thanks!

..jar: Me, too! =) Thank you!

Hades Lord of the Dead: Heeey, long time, no see! *hugs* (Okay, I admit my deplorable ignorance: what _is_ bromance? No, I really don't know! *blushes*)

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==5. Too Late==<strong>

It was the tale that rocked the English-speaking world and startled an adoring but largely-ignorant public out of their naïve complacency. It was the tale that told more of the truth than the papers had at the time, what few had deigned to mention it at all.

"The Final Problem."

The timing could not have been worse.

Published only a month after his wife and child's murder, "The Final Problem" had strangers on the street offering their condolences to Dr. John Watson over the death of his beloved friend. He could only stand there, stiff at near-military attention, and restrain himself from snapping at them to leave him alone. They could save their pity for someone who _wanted_ it.

His personal editor, he found, didn't have an easy time of it, either. "It is madness, Watson!" Dr. Arthur Doyle exclaimed upon a visit to London. "These fanatic readers of yours have the audacity to write to me concerning their indignation with _me_ for killing off Sherlock Holmes! So many of them think he was _a bloody fictional character!_"

One corner of Watson's mouth pulled back, the furthest concession he made these days to smiling. "Dreadfully sorry about that, old fellow. Do you know, you wouldn't be dealing with such sentiments right now if your name wasn't appearing with mine in the _Strand_?"

Doyle sighed. "I suppose if it diverts _some_ attention away from you, I can survive it."

Watson almost smiled that time. Almost. "Thank you."

Doyle nodded, then shook his head. "Heavens, the strong emotions of these readers, too. One might think you'd actually begun a cult!"

Watson's face darkened. "They're too late in their sympathies and sorrows," he said abruptly. "Two and a half _years_ too late. Sherlock Holmes died alone against his greatest enemy in a world that no longer wanted him."

The younger doctor was taken aback. "Watson… I thought the papers were silent because of Moriarty's connections… and, well, _A Study in Scarlet_ and _The Sign of the Four_ never _were_ very popular…"

The dark, brooding look eased but slightly in Watson's face. "My apologies, Doyle. I suppose I am a bit… _bitter_… these days."

"No one could fault you for it," Doyle said sincerely. Sensing that his colleague wished to be alone, he rose and nodded. "Good day to you, Watson. I'll call round tomorrow morning."

Watson didn't look up from where he sat on the settee, elbows on his knees and hands clasped before him. Doyle was struck by the uncanny resemblance to the late Mr. Holmes's bearing and manner. "Good day, Doyle," Watson murmured.

The younger man left, and still Watson remained in that place and position, as if frozen in time. Brooding, remembering… grieving. _A prophet in his own country_…

Yes, the world's grief had come far too late. Holmes had deserved better than that.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I tried to find the article I know I've read online which mentioned the letters that Doyle got from an indignant public—and I can't find it! _Grrr_…

"The Final Problem" was published in December 1893, two years and seven months after Reichenbach. In the introduction, Watson tells us: "As far as I know, there have been only three accounts in the public press: that in the _Journal de_ _Genève _on May 6th, 1891, the Reuter's dispatch in the English papers on May 7th, and finally the recent letters [Colonel Moriarty's] to which I have alluded. Of these the first and second were extremely condensed, while the last is, as I shall now show, an absolute perversion of the facts." Only two articles ever acknowledged Holmes's death! The grip Moriarty's empire had on the press must have been powerful, indeed—nothing else can account for such a complete suppression of the death of the world's leading detective.

It's also true that STUD and SIGN really _weren't_ popular. It was the short stories that made Holmes's name a household word. In fact, it was because of _American_ interest in Sherlock Holmes that he was published at all!

Next Monday, a pre-FINA piece concerning some of the Canon's most memorable villains. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	6. The Highest Degree Sinister

**Author's Note:**

Any of you Study in Stardom readers recall a sneak peek months ago for a story called "The Highest Degree Sinister"? Welp, here it is AT LONG LAST. Believe it or not, it's been completed and just sitting on my computer for a looong time. I was just waiting for a good time to post it. Since it falls under the category of Moriarty vs. Holmes, I figured it was a good candidate for this collection.

**To my reviewers:**

SabrinaPhynn: Fortunately, it's just four more months 'til Holmes finally comes home from the time of the last chapter, so Watson will not be that way for long. (He _might_ take a cuppa if you're quiet. ^_^) More or less a cult, yes—I enjoyed that line, too. =) *hugs back* Thank you!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you, and you're welcome!

Moonspun Dragon: Which version of _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_, darlin'? There is more than one, you know. ;D Le gasp, they've gone on strike? This is unacceptable! Shall I bribe them with homemade chocolate confectionaries? …Thank you!

Hades Lord of the Dead: *hugs back* Oh, is that all? Heh, heh. Thank you!

tapd0g: Thank you! *jaw drops* Really? I didn't know that! Can you remember where you read that? Okay, letter-writing is one thing, but _mourning bands_? Sounds to me like they _knew_ he was real!

fayfayzee: Yes, I've read that, too—several times over. I don't think he did understand just what he'd unleashed when he published those stories, even after publishing FINA (_and_ I do seriously believe that Holmes was a real person **http : / / www . sherlockian . net /world/ starling . html**).

insideouttuoedisni: Thank you very much!

nomdeplume30: Thanks for the multi-reviews! =) Glad you liked "2. Resurrection," and very glad that you liked Holmes in "3. Those Problems." …Poor Watson, indeed. =( Thank you!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==6. The Highest Degree Sinister==<strong>

_Late 1890_

Fog hung low and heavy over the city of London, street lamps barely penetrating the murk. The chill gloom of late October, however, paled in comparison to the cold dark permeating the office tucked away in the back of a respectable club. The gas lamps were lit, but their pale light offered little warmth to the opulent room.

A small, thin man of twisted figure stood before a desk wringing his bowler hat. On the other side of the desk sat a tall, slender man looking over a sheet of foolscap. The cool air of mastery in the tall man left no doubt as to who controlled this interview.

"You murdered your nephew with your exotic disease," the tall man said tonelessly, not even deigning to look up from the paper.

"Yes," the short man acknowledged, unable to withhold a mild tremor from his voice in that one word.

"And Sherlock Holmes is now on the case."

"Yes…"

"He has found you out."

"I am not certain—"

"Oh, but I am, sir," the tall man interjected smoothly, at last favoring his visitor with a serene smile. "I have my sources, Mr. Smith, and even did I not, it is quite inconceivable that the amateur detective should fail to connect you to the murder."

"…Yes, sir?"

"I believe my instructions were for you to acquire a different test subject for your malignant experiments," the man continued calmly. "Now, thanks to your unrestrained lust for your brother's estate, the most brilliant detective in London is hot on your trail."

"I didn't think—" Smith tried frantically to explain.

"Indeed, sir, you did _not_ think. It was all too easy for Holmes to link you to Savage's death," the other man said coolly. "As I warned you it would be. I can arrange for you to disappear if you wish, but you had best leave our private consulting detective alone. _I_ will deal with him when I am ready."

In an attempt to salvage his pride, Smith drew himself up with wounded dignity. "You speak, sir, as if I would attempt to infect Holmes himself."

The silent gaze of the cold iron-grey eyes, steady though the domed head slowly turned back and forth, was enough to unnerve men of much stronger constitution than Smith. After a few moments, his master spoke again. "Indeed, Mr. Smith, you shall not." The man rose slowly to his feet till he, abruptly exuding a quiet but intense and malevolent power, towered over the much shorter Smith. "To do so would be to court unavoidable disaster."

"I-I shall not, of course," the little man stammered.

The domed head dipped once in regal acknowledgement. "Then you had better decide whether or not you wish to affect a disappearance. It cannot be long before Holmes acquires the necessary evidence to convict you."

"Yes, sir." Smith nearly bowed before making as hasty a retreat as was properly possible.

"Colonel," the tall man called.

A large man possessing a powerful physique entered the room and nodded. "Yes, Professor?"

"What think you of Mr. Culverton Smith?"

The colonel snorted. "He is a fool, sir. Too convinced of his own ideas, too unyielding."

"Quite so." One corner of the professor's mouth pulled back, but there was no warmth in the expression. "But a useful fool, he remains. His knowledge of exotic diseases is too valuable an asset for us to dispose of just yet. For now, he has our protection."

"Yes, sir," the colonel said reluctantly, and perhaps a trifle resentfully.

"Patience, my dear Colonel. Once we have cultivated a sufficient replacement for Mr. Smith, you may have your way with him."

The smile of the retired soldier was the feral, predatory smile of a tiger.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Okay, clarification time. Yes, that is Culverton Smith of "The Dying Detective." Yes, those are Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran. What are they doing together? Absurdly simple!

Watson says that the events of DYIN take place in the second year of his marriage. At least two different timelines make that out to be Watson's second, _post_-FINA marriage, rather than his first (with Mary Morstan). However, if DYIN is indeed _pre_-FINA and in the second year of Watson and Mary's marriage (if they were wed in early 1889, as appears to be the case), "The Dying Detective" would fall on November _1890_. In just six months, Holmes would be battling Moriarty at Reichenbach.

Holmes credited Moriarty as being "the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city." Granada's "Redheaded League" was a stroke of genius for making Moriarty the true brains behind the crime, since the case took place in October 1890. Along these lines, it's not farfetched at all to theorize that Culverton Smith was connected to Moriarty—certainly, the Professor could put Smith's diseases to good use.

I must say that it was absolutely _lovely_ writing Moriarty! (I think this was actually my first piece involving him.) He's just so brilliant and chilling… *shivers* As for Culverton Smith… he's quite the little shrimp compared to the Professor, isn't he? This is a completely canon-compatible version of this story—I might, later in this same collection, do a rewrite with a version of Smith that's more in the manner of Granada or even of the BBC radio with Clive Merrison. Just to see what works…

Next Wednesday, a certain detective finds himself literally "heading for the hills."

_**Please review!**_


	7. Stalked by a Tiger

**Author's Note:**

I have several ideas for the next few installments, but nothing written yet. You might have to wait 'til Monday for an update, because I'd really like to get in just _one_ installment for _Becoming the Great Detective_. And that will probably take longer than an installment for this series.

So if you want to read more Hiatus-related stuff, you can check out my story collection _At the Mercy of the Mind_. =) Numbers 4, 8, 22, 29, 37, 44, 45, and 46 (today's installment, the duel at Reichenbach) all deal with the Hiatus and Moriarty.

Btw, something I forgot to mention last time—cookies to anybody who knows where the title "The Highest Degree Sinister" comes from!

**To my reviewers:**

nomdeplume30: Thank you!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you!

SabrinaPhynn: …I think somebody's been watching _Sherlock_ lately, lol. Ha-ha, thank you!

Moonspun Dragon: Goodie! C'mon, boys, I've gotta read the finish! Ah, okay. xD …Really? Thank you! Mm… I don't know, Granada's Moran _might_ have fit in there… I like it that he could be so very normal in court, and yet he's such a bad guy. =) Dunno. =D

fayfayzee:, there are quite a few times in the stories that you get people with grey eyes and even dark hair, and sometimes even tall, thin men with grey eyes and dark hair (at least, I'm pretty sure), which is a basic description of Holmes himself! Originally, I'd written _blue_ eyes for Moriarty, but then I reread FINA and discovered that his eyes were grey. =) I think that the reason so many people have believed in Holmes over the years is that the stories are so realistic—there's a level of detail that you hardly get anywhere else, and even his most extraordinary deductions are explained very logically. …And I still stand by the belief that the contemporary Londoners believed he was real just because he was. =)

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==7. Stalked by a Tiger==<strong>

_Late 1893_

He was literally fleeing for the hills.

He could well appreciate the practicality of such a move, for one could lose one's pursuers quite thoroughly in high, uneven terrain. That is, if one had the strength to do so.

But he had been on his feet for the past forty-nine hours, and with no sustenance save one stream from which he'd had to take one swift gulp before moving on. This was not the streets of London, where coffee and liquor were easily obtainable, and the terrain long since tamed by man. This was the wilds of Eastern Europe.

Here, he was not the hunter, but the hunted.

Here, the hunter knew how to negotiate such terrain.

One long month of running from Moran… and how the _devil_ the Colonel had regained the trail was beyond him; the scent should have been lost since before Tibet… Sherlock Holmes was beyond weary, feeling far older than his thirty-five years, and almost indifferent to what happened to him next. He'd gone through so much that he was almost too tired to care. Almost the only reason he kept on running was out of sheer habit.

He hadn't even heard from Mycroft in months, unable to stay in one place long enough to send or receive any missives.

To make matters worse, it was late October. Winter was already touching Eastern Europe. He _had_ to reach France before the inevitable heavy snowfalls made furtive travel across the Continent almost impossible. Once he reached Montpellier, he would be safe. Mycroft's agents would see to it.

But for now, he was headed _away_ from civilization and into the wilderness. The wind whistled down from the not-so-distant mountains, sending his unprotected hair fluttering about and chilling him to the bone. He wore no heavy coat—only a light pack that contained the barest of essentials. He could not run encumbered by any weight greater.

One might have thought his physical exertions would strengthen him. Perhaps they did, but his body was too weary and battered to realize it.

He stumbled over some rocks and fell to his knees, and that was the point of danger. Now that he was at last supporting his weight on something other than his feet, he wanted no more than to let himself pitch face forward to the ground and _stay_ there, criminal colonels with airguns be hanged. It was so tempting, just to give in and lie there, and if Moran found him, so be it.

Death was preferable to this miserable twilight existence. At least if he died, he would be transported immediately to Paradise.

In these moments, all that held him back from letting go was a voice crying his name, the voice that haunted his dreams and accompanied his waking hours. He heard the anguish in that voice now, ringing in his head, and longed to answer it, though it be two years too late and Watson too far away to hear.

Setting his teeth and gathering what shreds remained of his formidable willpower, he pushed himself up slowly, groaning in pain. A full minute had passed before he was once again on his feet, though swaying unsteadily. He seemed unable to control his movements completely, and the realization worried him.

For the immediate future, he had to find a hiding place—if Moran's province was the hunt, Holmes's province was the hideaway. For the general future, he had to stop running before he died of sheer exhaustion.

There was only so long that even _he_ could keep going.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Poor Holmes—life is going from bad to worse! …This was born of a day of abject misery last week—I think you can tell. And one of the scariest things that can happen to you in a non-emergency situation is being unable to control your own movements completely—trust me, I know.

Next… probably Monday… I think we'll be seeing Wiggins. =)

_**Please review!**_


	8. His Father's Son

**Author's Note:**

Okay, important announcement—I'm going to standardize my updating schedule to _once a week_, on Monday. Sorry, but I need this—fic updates are getting to be too much to handle with so much going on my life right now.

**To my reviewers:**

SabrinaPhynn: *nods at "immersion in fan fiction"* Same here. I only recently watched bits of _The Blind Banker_ because I _had_ to for _Avenging Angels_. =) I just don't have time lately.

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you!

Moonspun Dragon: (About Moran) well, thank you. =) Probably not, no… Thanks!

MadameGiry25: No problem—thank you very much!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==8. His Father's Son==<strong>

Sometimes, he was remarkably similar, so much so that Lestrade thought it must hurt Watson to be around him. Other times, he was once again that twelve-year-old street urchin Lestrade could not believe was working for Mr. Holmes.

When the Inspector once gently inquired how the lad was taking Holmes's death, the boy gave him an all-too-familiar piercing look with his sharp blue eyes and said simply, "He was my father."

Lestrade understood. He remembered the death of the Inspector who'd mentored him in his early years as a Police Constable. He remembered how it had hurt—more than his own parents' deaths had.

Davy Wiggins was twenty-three now, 6'1", and still as thin as a lath. His face and clothes were clean now, and his hair was often slicked back. Though he occasionally slipped back into his native Cockney, his accent tended to be as refined as Lestrade's.

And while others of the original twelve Baker Street Irregulars—the Twelve Apostles, the Yard called them—had apprenticed themselves out to craftsmen or had even joined Scotland Yard themselves, Wiggins did odd jobs around the city, building up funds to go into practice himself as a private detective.

Lestrade found himself wishing the boy luck.

When Sherlock Holmes had begun his own practice, the allowance from his parents' estate was enough to buy him books for study and second-rate rooms. Wiggins didn't even have that. He'd been working at his goal for seven years now, and he was working at it still. One had to give him points for persistence.

They worked together rather often, Lestrade and Wiggins. Sherlock Holmes was dead, Professor Moriarty's empire was fragmented but not yet down for the count, and _Colonel_ Moriarty was waging a subtle war against Scotland Yard. Anyone who had been associated with Holmes was under fire, banding together Mycroft Holmes, the Watsons, the Twelve Apostles and the younger generation of the Irregulars, and Yarders Lestrade, Bradstreet, Gregson, Hopkins, and Jones.

An unlikelier bunch was never seen under the sun.

Wiggins and Gregson didn't get along very well—Gregson had never really gotten used to street Arabs doing what should have been the work of the official force. Hence why Wiggins, today, was ducking into Lestrade's office and hiding behind the door.

Gregson poked his head through the open doorway and asked, "Lestrade, has Watson come in yet?"

Lestrade fought off a smirk with difficulty. "Not yet, Tobias. I expect a patient has him delayed."

"Right. …Lestrade?"

"Mm?"

"You… never mind." And with that, the big man disappeared.

Wiggins eased tentatively out from behind the door. "That was close," he breathed.

Lestrade chuckled. "Something you had to report, lad?"

Wiggins took a sheaf of papers from his worn-out suit coat and thumped it purposefully on the desk. "'Ere's what you wanted, sir. The boys done—_did_—well."

Lestrade nodded as he looked over them. "Thank you, Wig. Yes, I believe they did."

Wiggins smiled. "Well, then, I'll be off—"

"Erm, just a moment, Wiggins?"

"Yes, sir?"

Lestrade ran a scrutinizing eye over the young man. "Lad, are you sure you'd rather not join the Yard? You're sharp—we could use a man like you."

Wiggins shook his head. "Sorry, sir. It's right for some of the lads, I'll not deny it, but it's not for me. I need my independence."

Lestrade gave him an ironic smile. "Mr. Holmes corrupted you, didn't he?"

Wiggins didn't take offense—he knew Lestrade too well. He merely raised an eyebrow in a fair imitation of his mentor. "He _raised_ me. I'm my father's son."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Holmes and Wiggins' relationship is one that I've been thinking about for a while now. At first, I was thinking it would be more like big brother/little brother—after all, there's only ten years' difference between them in my personal canon. And while I don't doubt that it was like that, at times, it got to be that Holmes was really _raising_ the boy, training him in more professional investigation and teaching him what he would need to know—more proper English, etiquette, etc.—or ensuring that he got that teaching… To make sure that Wiggins could have a chance at a better life as an adult.

"The Twelve Apostles" is my idea. I'm well aware that, in STUD, only six Irregulars burst into the sitting room, but I'm _sure_ there were more. And the Yarders probably chose an apt nickname. =)

Next week… another Lestrade fic, this time first-person. Sort of a eulogy for Mr. Holmes.

_**Please review!**_


	9. One Man

**Author's Note:**

New post up on my blog! www(dot)studysherlockiana(dot)blogspot(dot)com It talks a little bit about AMM and describes a new book idea! Please check it out!

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Thank you very much!

Moonspun Dragon: *hugs back* Thank you!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you!

Hiding-in-the-cookie-jar: Thank you very much!

SabrinaPhynn: *reply already sent* ^_^

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==9. One Man==<strong>

I am always amazed at how the death of one man can change _everything_.

Sometimes, it is in the lives of just a few people. Other times, it's in the lives of many.

And, sometimes, it affects the whole bloody world.

I wonder if he would have still gone to his death if he'd known how much we still need him. Now, more than ever before, we need him terribly.

And we miss him.

Mr. Mycroft Holmes misses a brother; Dr. Watson misses a friend _closer_ than a brother; Davy Wiggins misses a mentor. I miss an arrogant amateur who berated me and my comrades thoroughly but always saw justice done.

I remember him when he was young—nineteen, just entering manhood. I remember him trailing me on my early cases as a Detective Inspector; I remember him solving the cases ahead of me without my asking; I remember taking him in when he contracted pneumonia. I knew him before he grew into the man the world would come to know as "the only private consulting detective." I knew him when he was still young and unsure of himself, when he was mourning his parents' deaths (and how he finally stopped wearing mourning black when he took up rooms with John Watson), when he didn't really care what happened to him because his grief was eating him alive.

I remember all that, and it helped me endure him once he finally gained his confidence and started making life difficult for us Inspectors.

I remember keeping an eye on him, as often as I could. It's not that I was ever his guardian, father figure, or even mentor—if there was ever a time that he learned _anything_ from me, the student quickly outstripped and _taught_ the teacher. I'm not even sure that I could have claimed him as a friend, for, though he called me "the best of professionals" and "the best of a bad lot," his criticisms were far more frequent and numerous than his praises. Our social status should have held us apart, anyway: me, the offspring of Breton smugglers, and him, the younger son of a country squire and a noblewoman. A Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard I may be, but I can only speak with the upper class through iron gates—by right of birth, _he_ was able to open the gates and step in.

We were far too different for friendship.

But, even so, my heart can't seem to help but ache a little bit when I think of his death. It isn't right. Sherlock Holmes could only be described as "larger than life"—and one just can't associate death with such men.

And he was so young. He was thirty-three, just fourteen all-too-brief years into his career. He still had almost his entire life ahead of him.

He was far too young.

I miss him greatly, not that I would ever admit it to a living soul. But, like Dr. Watson, I _can_ say truthfully that he was the best and the wisest man I have ever known.

And _that_ I can declare to the entire world.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Yes, this was Lestrade speaking. I love him so very much *squeezes him tightly*. He's so lovely, really!

"I remember taking him in when he contracted pneumonia" refers to a story that will be in the published version of _At the Mercy of the Mind_. =) I almost think it's worth buying the book just for that story—it's one of my favorites, and one of my best. I've got this big, rather vague backstory that covers the years from Sherlock's leaving college to STUD, and Lestrade features very prominently in it. I ADORE Holmes/Lestrade friendship, be it Canon, Granada, or _Sherlock_!

Next up… another pre-Reichenbach piece. Watson listens to Holmes praying the Lord's Prayer.

_**Please review!**_


	10. Deliver Us from Evil

**IMPORTANT NOTE:**

Somewhere between 2pm EST Tuesday and 2pm EST Wednesday, a new Sherlock Holmes book will go live on Kindle. The title is _At the Mercy of the Mind: A Journey into the Depths of Sherlock Holmes_. It is written by yours truly.

_**Please check it out once it's up!**_

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Thank you! …I love sad!Lestrade—so very huggable! =)

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you very much! Lovely to know that you guys think I'm doing well with our favorite Yarder!

fayfayzee: Thank you!

Moonspun Dragon: Yup, typical, indeed. ^_^ Thanks!

SabrinaPhynn: Lol, don't you love being American like that? xDDD Thank you, and embarrassed!Lestrade thanks you, too! =D

Historian1912: Hard copies, lol. *hugs* Great to hear from you again, and don't be sorry for being away! And you've got _The Adventures_? That's terrific! Shouldn't take you that long to get through it, either. …When you mentioned ATtH, I checked my profile and found that, sure enough, it was indeed far down the list. The sad truth is that I wasn't getting ANY inspiration on it for the longest time, and then AMM took over. Recently, however, I've been trying to make a comeback, and while the next chapter isn't getting very far, at least a future chapter is making some headway. I'm really glad that you like it so much.

insideouttuoedisni: Ah, 'tis good to have you back! =) Thank you very much!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==10. Deliver Us from Evil==<strong>

**May 4****th****, 1891: Merringen, Switzerland**

A familiar murmur pulled him out of the embrace of Morpheus and into the cool dawn of the waking world.

"…_art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, in Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread_…"

He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and saw Holmes sitting by the window, his knees hugged tight against his chest and his gaze directed at the world beyond their cozy inn.

"…_and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors_."

Watson recognized the words, of course—there wasn't an Englishman alive who did not know at least part of the Lord's Prayer.

"_And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil_."

Something in the detective's tone sent a chill of foreboding down the doctor's spine, as if Holmes foresaw something that Watson could not.

"_For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen_."

Something in his friend's face nearly broke Watson's heart. "Holmes," he whispered.

The younger man turned toward him with a weary smile. "Good morning, Watson." Watson could not place it, but the greeting sounded unmistakably _wrong_.

He did not answer immediately but slipped out of bed and padded over to the window, his instincts aroused. He took the detective's long, pale hand in his own and examined it. "You're more a wraith than a living being," he murmured.

"I am afraid that running from death has, ironically, not aided my health," Holmes quipped tiredly. The smile he wore did not reach his fathomless grey eyes.

Watson sank to his good knee, his hand still clasped around the other man's, his hazel eyes locked with grey. "Holmes, whatever happens, promise me that, when this is over, you shall permit yourself to rest. I know full well that mental stimulation is relaxation for you, but your body cannot support such a lifestyle forever. Will you promise me this?"

That heartrending look returned to the detective's eyes, and Watson realized that it was the same haunted look he had seen in Holmes following his imprisonment by Moriarty. "Watson," the younger man whispered hoarsely, "I cannot." He averted his gaze to the window. "I can make no promises," he continued in a tone that was only slightly stronger. "That is why I prayed that prayer."

"_Deliver us from evil_," Watson echoed.

"Indeed." Holmes closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool windowpane, his breath fogging the glass. "Providence alone can help us now."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

THIS. This is really the titular scene for the upcoming _Deliver Us from Evil_ series. This has it all in a nutshell.

Cookies for those who can place the date in the Canon. (Hint to AMM readers: this is the little-bit-later sequel to "4. Late Nights.")

Next up, the fateful meeting between Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Patterson. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	11. Alliance

**IMPORTANT NOTICE #1:**

_At the Mercy of the Mind: A Journey into the Depths of Sherlock Holmes_ is now available at $5.99, and can be linked to from my profile.

Pleeeease go buy it! You'll love it, I promise! (Do you have any idea how disheartening it is to have your book up for a week with less than ten sales?) And if you don't want to buy it, _please_ **don't** tell me "congratulations," because if I hear one more "congrats," I'll go nuts. Debut authors do _not_ want congratulations; debut authors want sales. And _this_ debut author is not only poor, but this brand-new book is actually her _only_ means of livelihood. (I.e. yes, I do not have a job.)

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><p><strong>IMPORTANT NOTICE #2:<strong>

I can no longer guarantee Mondays as update days—from now on, updates will be sporadic. Plus, I will probably be without 'Net access starting sometime next month and stretching into August. There may be times when I'll have the chance to jump online, but I can't guarantee anything until _**September**_, when I should hopefully have full Internet access once more. Believe me, I'll miss you guys as much as you'll miss me!

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><p><strong>To my reviewers:<strong>

Hidinginthecookiejar: Really? Aw, that's so sweet! Thank you!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you, and I'm sorry I forgot to answer your review before you left! I'll miss you, and I can't wait for you to come back!

MadameGiry25: Thanks you! I _love_ digging past Holmes's façade to get to the truly human part of him.

SabrinaPhynn: *giggles at the rhyme* That was awesome—YOU MUST CONTINUE. CONTINUE AND UPLOAD IT, YEEESSS. …How could something be Reichenbach but more accurately the Sussex Downs… O.o

Faithful Bozwell: Thank you so much! And, of course, you've already got your plateful of cookies. ;D

Moonspun Dragon: *hugs back, sheepish grin* Thanks… Favorite is good. =D As for reading the actual series, see the author's note below!

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==11. Alliance==<strong>

**Late January 1891: Scotland Yard**

He supported his weight on his walking stick, though few people would have realized it. His acting abilities were serving him well in France thus far—no one had seemed to notice that he was in poor condition physically. A few Yarders acknowledged his presence and greeted him as they passed; Hopkins in particular greeted him effusively. He suspected that he had actually gained a genuine admirer in the Yard.

At last, Lestrade came out to meet him. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes. It's good to see you up and about again."

In other words: _I'm glad to see you still alive_. Holmes suddenly recalled that Lestrade had not been to Baker Street since before Christmas. He cocked his head in greeting and gave a little smile. "I have been in France for a week, as a matter of fact," he said quietly. It was a trip quite contrary to the wishes of Watson and Mycroft.

Lestrade's dark eyes flitted over Holmes's person for a moment. "You're depending on that walking stick."

Once again, Holmes was vindicated in calling the little man the best of professionals. He chuckled slightly and said, "Indeed, I am. Shall we?" And he gestured down the hall.

The older man sighed. "Come along, then." They made the brief journey to Lestrade's office, and the Yarder pushed open the door and entered first. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Daniel Patterson."

A tall man rose from a chair before Lestrade's desk to greet them, and, for a moment, Holmes was startled speechless for one of the few times in his life. He recovered swiftly, however, and gave the man a nod. "Good morning, Inspector."

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Patterson nodded back, resuming his seat and lacing his fingers together.

Holmes shot Lestrade a lightning-fast look of astonishment, which Lestrade returned with a minute shrug as he rounded the desk to take his own seat. Holmes took the third chair, removed his top hat, and did a swift appraisal of the stranger. Unwed, upper middle-class, left-handed, injured left leg, born in Kensington, educated in Eton before choosing criminal investigation rather than a gentleman's profession.

There were two things that had startled Sherlock Holmes. One was Patterson's intelligence—Holmes was forced to recant on his opinion of Gregson as the Yard's smartest man. Gregson was bright and sharp, but he was very showy about it. Patterson's brilliance was quiet and veiled, all the more powerful for it. But the very first thing Holmes had seen had startled him more.

Daniel Patterson looked almost enough like Sherlock Holmes as to be his twin.

Patterson was roughly the same height and quite the same build and coloring. There were but two immediate differences that spoiled the illusion of twin-hood: one was the Inspector's blue eyes as opposed to Holmes's grey, and the other was the crystalline hardness of the official detective's aquiline face. Patterson was quite a few years older or else aged prematurely, and his ice-blue eyes were jaded in a way that Holmes suddenly never hoped to achieve.

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands together beneath his chin and leaned back in his chair. "Patterson, Lestrade informs me that you have been chosen to lead Scotland Yard's war on Professor Moriarty."

Patterson's fingers unlaced and his hands spread themselves flat on his thighs—Holmes drank in every twitch, every nuance of expression, to read this diamond-hard man. "That is correct, Mr. Holmes." Precise and flawless diction, clearly indicative of higher birth and better education than most Yarders. Holmes noted that the other's left hand abruptly curved protectively over his left leg. "I was the man who engineered the operation that pulled you out of Moriarty's grip."

Holmes started for the second time in five minutes. The sensation was not a pleasant one. "Indeed?"

"Do understand, Mr. Holmes, that I am not asking for gratitude. I merely point out my capability in dealing with the Professor."

Lestrade said nothing, but his eyebrows drew together sharply. Holmes remained outwardly impassive, inwardly seething at the cut. A Yarder had managed to outwit the Professor and rescue his captive, the amateur detective who was renowned for his derision of the official forces. "I congratulate you, Inspector," Holmes said flatly. "It takes a keen mind to outmaneuver Moriarty."

Patterson accepted that with a tilt of his head, but the look on his face was revealing. Brilliant but arrogant. Holmes made a brief mental note to show a little more humility to Watson and Lestrade in the future—being dosed with his own medicine was positively rankling. "I was able to do so because of my several years spent infiltrating his organization. It is for this reason that I am chosen for this assignment."

Holmes leaned forward in his seat. "And you wish the benefit of my aid."

"Quite so. MacDonald tells me that you have been on the Professor's trail for the past few years."

"Since '87, yes. Inspector, you must understand that I am needed in France. I am only able to be here in London for the day, and I must take the late boat train back to Dover. This necessitates communiqués across the Channel, which, in turn, heightens the risk of Moriarty learning our plans."

Patterson took it all calmly. "Every war runs risks."

Lestrade stirred then, angrily, but was stilled at a reassuring glance from Holmes. "Very well, Inspector," he said coolly. "You may relay that to the wives and children of the men who won't be coming home when all is said and done."

He caught a vindicated expression from Lestrade out of the corner of his eye. Patterson's blue eyes narrowed. "Every man who takes up the badge knows that he might die in the line of duty, and every woman who marries a policeman understands this."

"And every child born to those policemen wants his father to _come home_," Lestrade snapped. "But you wouldn't understand that, would you, Patterson?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows fractionally while Patterson's drew together sharply. "Did I say anything that wasn't a _fact_, Lestrade?"

The challenge hung heavy in the air among the three of them. Lestrade glared at Patterson, and Patterson stared back. The tension was thick enough to slice with a saber.

"_Enough_." Sherlock Holmes was younger than either Inspector, but, when he chose to use the power of his voice and presence, the Director Inspector himself could not match him. He stood, using the advantage of his height on the seated Yarders, and replaced his top hat. "Inspector Patterson, you can reach me at this address." He handed the man a card. "If I am out of town, my mail will be forwarded to my current location. Good day, Inspectors." He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and swept out of the room.

For all his arrogance and coldness, Patterson had a weakness, and Holmes had glimpsed at it during that short interview. Fear.

He was afraid of Moriarty.

Not just the healthy fear any Yarder should have of a criminal so brilliant, but an abiding though well-concealed terror. The hand that had covered that game leg protectively… Patterson, too, had been tortured by Moriarty's men.

Holmes sighed. He was but thirty-two years of age—almost thirty-three—yet he felt so very old. It was not a new sensation, but neither was it a welcome one. Like the look-alike Patterson, he had experienced much in his time on this earth. His life was hastening towards its climax in this, his greatest struggle yet against an equally brilliant mind. What would come next? What would be the purpose of surviving this?

Certainly no foe so worthy of his steel would ever come his way again.

An epiphany struck him as he stepped out into the miserable winter rain.

_This case shall result in my death_.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Why is Holmes unwell? Hmm, well, you'll have to read the on-site version of AMM to find out—come to think of it, you'll have to buy the _Kindle_ version of AMM to get the full story. (Hint to AMM readers: the "torture-arc".)

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><p><strong>Game Plan:<strong> I'm going to get caught-up with my online writing course, then I'll start writing the first installment of _Deliver Us from Evil_:_ Mortality_. (Originally _Amid Winter's Chill_—"Mortality" is more gripping and gives you a much more immediate sense of danger.) It's possible that I could get it written by Christmas, and, if my beta can manage it, we could be seeing _Mortality_ out on Kindle sometime this coming winter! (Perfect timing, actually…)

Now we return to our regularly-scheduled A/N…

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><p>Patterson. He's a mysterious figure in the Canon. We never even meet him, and he's only ever mentioned in one story, "The Final Problem". He's a Detective Inspector, and he's the man chosen to net Moriarty. He's the man in whose hands Sherlock Holmes actually <em>leaves the entire operation<em> while he flees London. That right there has to say something about the man.

I will admit right now that Aragonite's _A Sword for Defence_ series is coloring my perceptions of the Hiatus and other related personages and details, BUT. Hey, these stories are still _mine_, okay? Trust me, I'm not plagiarizing.

Anyway, whoa, hold the phone, Patterson could pass as Holmes's _twin_? Where did _that_ come from? Well, surprise, surprise, it was Aragonite. She describes him as being tall, lean, pale… and I'm trying to find it and can't, but I'm pretty sure dark-haired and light-eyed. Who does that sound like to _you_, as a general description?

You can guess who it sounded like to _me_.

So that gave me the idea of Patterson and Holmes being look-alikes and even somewhat similar in intelligence and personality. We'll be seeing a _lot_ more of Patterson as a major player in DUE.

Next up, have no idea what or when. Just keep your eyes peeled. ;D

_**Please review!**_


	12. A Night Out with the Yarders

**Author's Note:**

Sadly, I don't have time to answer reviews this time (then again, I got only one review on the last chapter—I don't think anybody else realized it was there). So very sorry, ElizabethAnneSoph!

Tomorrow, I go offline (see profile for details). *whimper* I'll see you guys here and there in the next two months, though.

The awesome thing, however? _Deliver Us from Evil, Book I: Mortality_ has **six chapters written**. That's a total of **over 18,000 words**. And this installment is actually _from the second chapter_. Enjoy the sneak peek!

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==12. A Night Out with the Yarders==<strong>

"All right, now for it!"

Two figures, one large and one small, dashed across the street from the shelter of an overhanging roof and burst into the tavern. The smaller figure dashed off his bowler hat, letting the rainwater drain to the floor, and smashed it firmly back onto his head. "Not bad timing!"

"It's still a mystery to me how you can keep up with Bradstreet, Lestrade," a voice boomed out from one of the tables.

"Don't try to solve it!" the larger of the newcomers advised, shaking out his peaked cap. "It'll hurt even your bright head, Gregson!"

The smaller man, one Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade, shook his head and made for the table around which several other Scotland Yarders were clustered. "Evening, all," he greeted, taking a seat beside young Sergeant Stanley Hopkins. The lad was five-and-twenty years of age but cursed with one of those faces that made him appear much younger, a fact which did little to inspire confidence amongst the civil population. He was one of the very few junior detectives, however, to socialise so much with the older generation, who recognised his dedication and intelligence.

"Sirs," Hopkins nodded respectfully.

"Lestrade, Bradstreet." Gregson lifted his tankard in salute.

Peter Athelney Jones merely gave a wave before he took a swig from his bottle, and Harold Morton smiled his greeting. Alec MacDonald grinned up from where he was lounging with the back of his chair against another table and his feet propped up on theirs. Bradstreet lowered his giant frame into the chair on the other side of Lestrade and folded his huge hands over the tabletop. "So? What goes on on this lovely London night?"

"Ferret Face didn't tell you?" Gregson wondered. Lestrade glanced heavenward and found himself wishing once again that Dr. Watson hadn't been quite so descriptive in _A Study in Scarlet_. "Whom you see about you are those who've been called in tonight to meet somebody coming in from the Home Office."

The atmosphere around the table instantly sobered. Bradstreet turned to Lestrade. "Do you know who?"

Lestrade nodded slowly, taking a cigarette from his coat. He needed a smoke every time he merely _thought_ about the man, much less spoke of him. "He's one of us," he said enigmatically. "So whatever you do, _don't_ stand in respect when you see him. He's one of us."

"Inspector, you're making me nervous," Hopkins said candidly.

"You should be, lad," Lestrade nodded, drawing in the smoke. "You should be."

Jones frowned. "If it's got Lestrade spooked, you know it's bad."

"Not _bad_," Lestrade chuckled nervously. "Well, no, that'd depend on your definition of 'bad.'"

"Good god, the man needs a drink," Gregson muttered.

"It's just… dash it, how did that Stamford bloke put it?" Lestrade took another drag from the cigarette. "_It is not easy to express the inexpressible_."

Hopkins eyebrows shot skyward. "That's from the Doctor's first story—his friend describing Mr. Holmes…"

Morton drummed his fingers on the table. "So we've got a Sherlock Holmes on the force, and nobody knew about it?"

Lestrade sighed. "Just wait and see."

One pint and three cigarettes later, Lestrade was feeling fortified enough to greet their visitor. The man slipped into the tavern so quietly and inconspicuously that Lestrade and Gregson were the only two to notice him. Then, next thing the former rivals knew, the newcomer was before their table and removing his bowler hat. "Good evening."

The other five Yarders all started in their seats and turned to gape at the man—Gregson was also gaping. Lestrade cherished the sight. "Evening, Patterson," he drawled.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

This is one of my favorite scenes from the existing chapters—the full scene is quite long and chock-full of lovely Yarder interaction. The Yarders are SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE. Lestrade, of course, is the best, but Gregson comes in for a close second—they're both so snarky sometimes. ^_^ Oh, and yes, Peter Jones and Athelney Jones are _one and the same person_. They are! You have only to read SIGN and then REDH right after to see it!

Alec MacDonald is the inspector from VALL. Morton (no Christian name given in Canon) is from DYIN.

Well, God bless y'all! Catch you later!

_**Please review!**_


	13. Wives of the Yard

**Author's Note:**

Well, it's been a long time since I've updated this! This piece takes place in the middle of _Mortality_, some time after Watson sends Mary away to Mrs. Forrester. This scene was actually written for a school assignment for dialogue and has now been polished slightly thanks to my mentor's comments. The three characters are… well, you'll see in a moment! Enjoy!

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><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==13. Wives of the Yard==<strong>

"And they say that Christmas is a time of peace on earth," groused Annie Lestrade, sifting through the crate of decorations.

"It _is_, and _you_ sound like my Tobias," Lisbeth Gregson grinned.

Annie favored her friend with a scowl before turning to her business. Lisbeth merely shook her head and continued to untangle a string of dried berries.

Ellie Bradstreet entered the storage room, grimacing and holding her head. "Ach, but the chilluns are loud outside," she complained. "That lot could make a fine batch of constables, with lungs like that."

"I believe Sherlock Holmes beat you to the notion," Annie said absently. "Oh!" She rose from the crate and held up an angel. "She is lovely…"

"She's seen better days, darling," Ellie pointed out. "Perhaps you should retire her."

Annie shook her head. "If you think we should not use her, I would be willing to take her home with me. Rhiannon would love her."

"Take her, and my blessing," Ellie shrugged. "They're all of them _donated_ decorations. Lizzie, how soon do you think we can decorate?"

"A few minutes, I should think."

"Splendid. Annie?"

"I'm ready right now, Ellie." Annie set the doll on a shelf and hefted up the crate.

Ellie sighed. "Ach, you're too small to be doing that, Ann. Let me help."

"You just take that crate over there," Annie directed, shifting her hold on her crate. "I'll be fine."

"If you say so…"

"I may be small, Eleanor Bradstreet, but I am not a weakling," Annie said firmly as she marched past her friend.

"I plead that living with a giant for a husband has skewed my view," Ellie called after her.

Annie considered that. "Skewed your view…"

"That's what I said."

"That was… strangely poetic, Ellie."

"Heaven help us. Annie, do _not_ use that in one of your poems."

Annie flashed Ellie a completely unladylike grin. "A bit late for that, dear: it is already taking shape in my head."

Ellie glared back. "Hopeless romantic."

"You encourage me."

"I do not!"

"Ladies," Lisbeth's soft voice interjected. "Are we going to 'deck the hall,' or you going to stand there bickering? Remember, Annie—peace on earth."

Annie glared at her friend but set the crate down and drew a wreath from it. "Peace on earth," she repeated, scanning the walls for a place to hang the wreath. "I stand with Mr. Longfellow—there is no peace on earth, I say!" **(1)** She flung the wreath out for dramatic emphasis before holding it up to a bare patch of wall.

Lisbeth merely raised an eyebrow.

"From the dregs of Whitechapel to the shores of our Indian possessions **(2)** to our very own hearths," Annie continued firmly, eyeing the wall critically. "Now, I put to you that the angel was speaking of the same peace Christ spoke of at the Last Supper **(3)**; therefore, I do not a-t'all appreciate the words 'peace on earth' bandied about at Christmastime when the Christian world is at its battiest."

Ellie stopped removing ornaments and clapped. "A teacher through and through, Annie, m'dear."

Annie carefully placed the wreath on the wall. "Forget it not, darling."

"As if I could ever!"

Lisbeth sighed. "I miss the other teacher of our little group."

Annie frowned. "As do I. Mary Watson certainly leaves a void in one's life when she's away."

"She could have stayed with one of us while the Doctor was away," said Ellie.

Annie shook her head. "John didn't want her in London right now." She sighed. "_Sherlock Holmes_ leaves a void when he's not present, and that's the gospel truth!"

"I pray the men will find him soon," Ellie murmured.

Annie rounded on her, dark eyes widening. "Eleanor!"

"No, my Roger is not working on the case like your husbands are, but they _do_ keep in touch!" Ellie snorted. "Do help with this garland, please."

Annie moved forward to help, and it was Lisbeth's turn to frown. "That information is confidential. Either Tobias and Geoffrey are speaking out of turn, or Roger _is_ working on the case to some degree."

"Knowing Geoffrey, then, I'd say it's the latter," Ellie said firmly. "'Best of professionals,' and all that. Annie, your side of the garland is slipping."

Groaning, Annie adjusted it. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for that wonderful hon—I shouldn't say that." She bit her lip. "I don't even know if he is alive yet or not."

"He was kidnapped, Annie," Ellie reminded her gently, "not killed outright. Keep your chin up and keep praying."

Annie shook her head, stepping away from the garland. "It's been nearly a month now since he disappeared, Ellie. You know what can happen to a man in just _one week_ if his kidnappers are ruthless enough. And, for all that radiant intellect… he is so very _fragile_. You have no _conception_ of just how…" **(4) **She nearly choked on the words as she looked down.

Ellie wrapped her arm around the smaller woman's shoulders. "Our lads will find him, love. They will. You just worry your head about your children, and leave the worrying of the investigation to the menfolk." She lifted Annie's chin to meet her gaze. "That's their job."

Annie released a shuddering breath. "But it _is_ my job to worry after my family, and Sherlock Holmes is that." She let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "Have you ever seen him with the children? Jeremy and Rhiannon long to be Irregulars, and, of course, Geoffrey will have none of it. But the children love Mr. Holmes that much, and he adores them in return—I know he does."

"He's quite a paradox, that one," Lisbeth observed as she inspected a nutcracker. "Acts like he's all brain, but he's all heart underneath—at least, I have it on good authority." She nodded towards Annie. "'Fraid I haven't had much experience with the Great Detective myself; Tobias doesn't like him half so much as Geoffrey does, so…" (**5) **She shrugged one shoulder.

"Who says Geoffrey _likes_ Mr. Holmes?" said Ellie, hazel eyes twinkling.

"Well, he surely consults him often enough," Lisbeth returned.

Ellie cocked an eyebrow. "I once heard Geoffrey call the man… well, there were a few invectives involved."

Annie's eyes widened. "Ellie, are you saying that my husband _swore_ in your presence?"

Ellie blushed slightly. "Not quite. I was at the Bow Street Station to see Roger, and I overheard them talking. It's really fascinating what you can hear when the lads don't know that you're about the place."

Annie and Lisbeth groaned. "You are _incorrigible_, Eleanor Alice Bradstreet," Annie retorted. "A-t'any rate, Geoffrey really does like Mr. Holmes very much, no matter what profanities he might level on the man. This kidnapping has certainly taken its toll on him; I sometimes have the impression that Geoffrey feels an almost fatherly duty towards Mr. Holmes."

Lisbeth blinked.

Ellie nodded sagely. "Roger has that impression, also."

Annie pressed her lips together. "Well, don't ever let Geoffrey know that. He'd first lecture us with all the authority of the Yard on how the exact opposite is true, and then he'd have to call upon the services of The Crooked Arrow to erase the memory of the entire conversation."

She sighed. "My sister Gwynne wants me to join her temperance society, and I shan't deny that there's some valid logic in the notion of alcoholic abstinence. But how can I join in good conscience when I know that, quite often, the only way for Geoffrey to endure Mr. Holmes's… abrasive personality… is to drink it off at the Yarders' favorite haunt? I find that, upon hearing the 'horror tales,' I can't even blame him!"

"'A policeman's lot is not a happy one,'" Ellie sang as she hung up another wreath. She turned back to face her friends, hands on her hips. "Nor is the lot of a policeman's wife!"

"And _that's_ the gospel truth," Lisbeth said firmly.

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><p><strong>(1)<strong> A famous American Christmas song: "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day," by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The poem was born out of the crisis of the American Civil War. The second stanza declares: _There is no peace on earth! I say. For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, goodwill to men_. And church congregations sing this song at Christmas—fortunately, there's a lighter ending!

**(2)** Annie is consciously quoting Dr. Watson's turn of phrase in _A Study in Scarlet_.

**(3)** John 14:27: _Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid_. Christ was speaking of an inner, spiritual peace, not peace between nations—in other words, not as the world gives. Annie's point is that the Christmas angel was speaking of the same kind of inner peace when he said "peace on earth".

**(4) **Annie is recalling the events of "76. Sick" from At the Mercy of the Mind, in which a 20-yr-old Sherlock Holmes comes down with pneumonia. Geoffrey and Annie Lestrade keep him at their flat for the duration of the illness and tend to him, both knowing that the lonely young man just might lose the will to live. It all goes back to what Geoffrey tells the other Yarders in The Crooked Arrow: "Sherlock Holmes in his early twenties was a young man I would not have wagered on reaching his thirtieth year."

**(5)** _Only_ in STUD does Gregson _ever_ ask Holmes for help—it's Lestrade who's always doing the asking. See **aragonite's** LJ for a fascinating look at this dynamic: http : / / karstcrystal . livejournal . com / 10056 . html

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Up to a point, writing this scene was difficult—the first scene in which _any_ of these characters had appeared. Oddly, that point was Annie and Ellie going back and forth over Annie's poetry. Once I got past that, it was all coasting downhill.

I love Annie, dearly. I like the other women, as well, but it's Annie who has my heart. Expect to see more of her in the future!

_**Please review!**_


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